Brannon said, ``Now the key to the lockup, Marshal.''

``Key?'' Macklin said. ``What for?''

``Can't you guess?'' Brannon said. ``We're putting you where you wonn't come to harm. Come on -- the key. Get it out!''

``Damned if I will. Brannon, you've assaulted a law officer and'' --

They moved in on him, crowded him from all sides. No man laid a hand on him, but the threat of violence was there. His face took on a sudden pallor, became beaded with sweat, and he seemed to have trouble with his breathing. He held out a moment longer, then his nerve gave under the pressure.

He swore, and said, ``All right. It's here in my pocket.''

``Get it out,'' Brannon ordered. Then, as Macklin obeyed: ``Now let's go out back.''

Resignedly, Macklin turned to the back door. They followed him into the rain and across to the squat stone building fifty feet to the rear. The door of the lockup was of oak planks and banded with strap iron. It was secured by an oversized padlock. Macklin balked again, not wanting to unlock and open the door. They crowded him in that threatening way once more, forced him to give in. Once the door was open, they crowded him inside the dark building. He was uttering threats in a low but savage voice when they closed and padlocked the door.

They returned to the street, mounted their horses, rode through the rain to the big house on Houston Street. Its windows glowed with lamplight. Deputy Marshal Luke Harper still stood guard on the veranda, a forlorn, scarecrowish figure in the murky dark. He came to the edge of the veranda, peered down at them with his hand on his gun.